Last Post

This post, for all intents and purposes, is going to be my last from London. Tonight is our school's farewell party (raging on from 5:30 to 7:30...I hope I can stay up), and then the place is closed for the weekend, meaning no free internet unless I want to smell like mcShit and sit in McDonalds to use it, and then we pack up and jet out of here on Monday morn.

What a long, strange journey it's been! *you can't see me but I'm wearing a cheesy, condescending smile*

In all seriousness it's been a really good experience for me, and I'm quite interested to see how I come out of it when I'm placed back into real situations that I'm familiar with. It's way too early to tell what I'm going to get out of having been in London for four months, but I'm hoping it's something, because it's so goddamn expensive (thanks to the 'rents, I promise that someday when I'm a billionaire you will get your own seaside mansion and will be set for life).

But as it stands now, I'm looking forward to coming home. I still think of it as home even though I haven't quite lived there in a while. It's a good feeling to know that you're still wanted there, still have a place to sleep and people who care about you, even if at the same time you're itching to break away and start your own life (and by "you" I mean "me"). This is part of a phase that just about everyone has to go through, the awkward transition years (take 2, since I already went through puberty, which was bad enough), but instead of being depressed about it and feeling dreadfully alone, which is absurd, methinks I shall embrace this youthful progression into early adulthood. See how mature I am? See Mom? Look. You're not even looking.

Anyway, there'll be ample time to reflect during the two 6-8 hour plane rides home, and these last few days are exclusively for packing, partying, and saying goodbye. So I'll be boogyin' down til the break of...7:30 tonight, and then it's on to the rest of my life, which, so far, looks pretty good.

Peace,

Adam

Sorry I Forgot About You

Crap, recently I've lost the time or motivation to write any blogs about what I'm doing, what fictional people are doing, or otherwise. However, I did recently visit Paris so it's not all bad. I mean, not for me. You were probably sitting in front of your lonely computer screen refreshing this page begging for some new material to get you through your pathetic excuse for a life. I'm ashamed that those are the only people that read my blog. Ashamed of you.

This is my last week in London and it's a little hard to believe that in 7 days I'll be back home, complaining about having nothing to do and wishing I was somewhere else. I can't wait. I'm one 10-page paper and an absurdly expensive meal of fish and chips away from being done with the fastest four months of my life (besides the ones in early childhood that I don't remember), and I'm sure I'll want to reflect about it and shit sometime soon but right now I've got some more important things to get to so I'll get back to that later.

Until that gorgeously written reflection, I bid ye adieu.

December Descends

For some reason I can't get the blog not to underline everything I write in blue, so do forgive me***edit***it doesn't show up when I post it so you can't see it. But I still felt the need to include it here, to document history. 

This post is to commemorate the entire month of November, during which I succeeded in not shaving my face (or my back (just kidding, I don't shave my back (because I don't have to))) for the duration. Yes, dedicated blog reader, you surely remember the sexy photobooth picture of myself I posted on Halloween*, and here is an equally sexy but more bearded photobooth picture of myself on December 1st, hours before I got an expensive haircut and hot shave at a local barbershop of some repute. It was a long and prosperous month but I must say it is nice to be comfortably within the loins of winter, and close to heading back home for a few weeks before I have the unique opportunity of seeing my Hollywood pipe dreams fizzle and die firsthand. I've been waiting for that moment for years. Until then, stay strong, blog reader, and I'll be back in your strong arms once again, and you'll cradle me just like the old times and tell me everything will be alright, even if you're not really sure yourself.

* see post from October 31st

Surrealism--Alive and Well and Living in My Brain

Baseball propellor orange tree feeds into rhubarb quiche plunges behind plastered walls reminiscent of dusk brandied in silent festering squalor smelling oregano faintly through one's petrified nostrils of promiscuous rotundness beaching whales that fly haplessly off through orange clouds of dewdrop beauty, caressing the sunholes of magnificent light coarsely on its way through the heavens.

Strained Relationship

Happy Thanksgiving, America. I hope you're doing alright without me...no nevermind, I don't care how you are, 'cause like, whatever, we had some good times but things are different now you know, like, we can't just pretend like this never happened, we can't just go back to the way everything used to be. Damnit America, I thought you'd understand, I thought we connected, that we had something special. Maybe we do, maybe...we just need to explore our options, see the world before settling down for good. I get you, I know what you're thinking, I know how hard this is, for both of us. Don't underestimate me, 'cause I'm capable of some powerful shit, you know? I know you know. Anyway, I do miss you today, but as painful as it is, I must carry on. You should do the same America...and you know what? No hard feelings.

Winter Reminiscing

Lost in thought in the middle of the park on a wintery evening, equipped with nothing but a large overcoat and a haphazardly prepared salami and cheddar sandwich, Lucy took the time to ponder how splendid being a young girl had been. She daydreamed of the love of her life, the handsome man who had sat across from her in her physics class eighteen years ago, who went by the name of Allibaster Goonhauss. How they had cuddled together on the playgrounds between classes, taking shelter from the blustery December winds in the plastic tunnel overlooking the private pond, where Madame Vrabel tended to the geese that flocked there year round. Now, munching her sandwich with a lonely expression on her face reddened by the cold, she decided to find him again, wherever he was, thinking she would be quite pleased to see his lively face again, regardless of how the years had treated it. Sadly Allibaster Goonhauss was currently serving a life sentence in prison with no possibility for parole.

Amsterdam: Chapter 1, Last Part

I longed to know what he was thinking about even though it was probably nothing. Eddie was a person who didn’t like to be bothered with extraneous thought unless it was undeniably necessary. The only problem with this theory is that I could never really know, never fully dive within his mind to witness firsthand whether or not he was thinking with the same complexity that I was now. That’s the problem with being me, I thought, is that I can never be anyone else. I’d always thought of myself as overly perceptive, catching idiosyncrasies of peoples’ characteristics that they themselves were not even aware of, processing ideas and jokes and ideologies faster and more thoroughly than most people knew; I thought I was a great thinker. At least compared to Eddie. And most of my friends. And Jessica. And Napoleon too, probably. Actually, probably not Napoleon. Dude was smart. But I would never know for certain because I couldn’t slip into Eddie’s brain to see if he thought the same way, that he was more complex than everyone else, and that he picked up on things he thought no one else did. I wondered if he thought the same way about me the way I felt about him. I wondered how I would be described in his work of semiautobiographical fiction, if he were writing one. Which he probably wasn’t. Eddie didn’t like writing at all, and hated arithmetic even more.

“What are you thinking about?”
“I was thinking that I will never be able to fully know what it is that you think about.”
“Fuck man,” but that was all he could get out before the three guys we had been waiting for barreled upstairs and saw Eddie and I in the corner, him still smoking his cigarette, me still slurping up my vanilla milkshake.

Amsterdam: Chapter 1, Part 4

“You tricked me into this conversation,” I said defensively, and Eddie just winked at me playfully and puffed away at his cigarette. Presumably the conversation was over. I sipped my milkshake and Eddie didn’t do anything. Now he had put all these thoughts in my head that were swirling around at a trillion miles an hour and I was trying to sort them out. My id was battling my superego as I tried not to picture myself fucking Jessica, or Napoleon for that matter, neither of which I was entirely keen on doing in the first place. Sadly I knew I’d probably do it if the opportunity presented itself. Not fucking Napoleon I mean, Jessica. I was a predictable male specimen then, willing to fuck an attractive female just because the opportunity was there. I wouldn’t do it though, I decided, even if she threw herself at me, because deep down I didn’t really want to. But maybe deeper down, on a primary level, I did, and at any rate the mere fact that I had been thinking about it, and her, and Napoleon for this long was probably a sign that some spark of a feeling was forming in my weak heart. So perhaps I did want her after all.

I glared at Eddie, at the very least more than slightly annoyed with him for shoving these thoughts into my susceptible brain, and I wondered what he was thinking about. I wondered if he ever second- or third- or fourth-guessed himself over matters of the heart, or cock. Sitting across from me now he appeared to be nothing but a hefty, foolish oaf, incapable of such internal conflict. Besides, he had a girlfriend anyway so it didn’t even matter. Still, he had been thinking about our friends and which one he’d like to fuck, otherwise he wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place. Or maybe he hadn’t thought one way or the other about it and just wanted to say something that would stir things up a bit because he was bored; or perhaps words simply tumbled out of his lips when he wasn’t paying attention and he wasn’t even aware of having said them at all. I wanted to ask him if he had any recollection of our conversation, just in case maybe it hadn’t ever actually happened and I had made it all up.

Tidbits Of Wisdom From This Summer #3

"I can feel it all over my face. I'm fuckin' Lady Macbeth over here."

Ideologies To Live By

"Every guy should see his sister's naked body at least once. I'm just sayin', hypothetically, if someone said you could fuck any girl you wanted, and gave you a line-up, but you could only see their bodies, like their faces weren't visible to you, and your sister just randomly by some crazy coincidence happened to be in that lineup, you'd wanna know if you saw her in that lineup that you would NOT pick her."

--S

Amsterdam: Chapter 1, Part 3 (sorry about weird formatting, too lazy to fix it)

“It’s only 10:15,” said Eddie, before I could finish describing the architectural features of the tired restaurant. “There’s something going on, no question. We just gotta wait for the guys to show up.”

            That could mean hours. I couldn’t wait that long.

“I’m trying to meet up with my friends tonight, man.”

            “What, you mean girls?”

            “Yeah, my friends are girls,” I said, more snidely than I meant to sound. “They said they were gonna call me and I wanna meet up with them.”

            “What, you wanna bang one of them?”

            “What? No,” I said, not ready for that one. “We’re just hanging out. No one’s going to be banging anyone.”

            “That’s a shame,” said Eddie, lighting a cigarette, “’cause I’d totally like to fuck one of those girls.” I must have thrown him a distasteful glance because he followed that with, “they’re cute man. You got good taste in friends.”

            “Don’t you have a girlfriend?” I asked him accusatorily, wishing we could just change the subject and move on.

            “Between the three of them, which one would you fuck?” Apparently Eddie wasn’t keen on changing the subject just yet.

            “You mean…”

            “If you had to choose between Katie, Heather, and Jessica, who would you sleep with?” He took a drag of his cigarette, I took one of my vanilla milkshake. Silence. Six thousand light years away I could hear an old hermit crawl into an icy cave and moan to death.

“Jessica, no question.”

“Really,” Eddie said, interested but trying not to sound too interested. “Not Heather? She’s fire.”

“Heather’s my sister’s name. It’d be too weird. Jessica would be chill, you know, and I think she’s pretty, you know, good looking. Even the name is so appealing. Jessica. Just listen to it. Jessica. Jessica.” I grinned at Eddie, who was shaking his head at me solemnly.

“Who cares about names, man? That should not be a deciding factor.”

“Even if Heather’s name was Jessica and Jessica’s name was Napoleon, I’d still choose her.”

“Who?”

“Jessica.”

“Jessica-Heather or Jessica-Napoleon?”

“Jessica-Jessica. I’d choose her. Hypothetically, I mean, if I had to choose. I don’t want to fuck any of them.”

“Really, because it sounds like you really want Jessica.”

Sometimes College Feels Too Much Like 8th Grade

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah drone drone drone drone drone drone drone on and on and on and on and on drone drone on and on. Slight pause. Continue, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah (as the lecture seems to be in no way near to ending, and since the enormous clock which holds our freedom in its hands is situated directly behind me making it impossible to calculate precisely how long it will be until our eventual escape, I dig into my thoughts as a means of avoiding...) drone drone drone "oh what's going on here Jimmy!" (what?) blah blah blah blah blah blah (...this tedious cell of a classroom. I glance outside the window but even before I do I can hear the lashing of rain against the thick glass and the harsh sound of unrelenting wind wailing away at atumnal trees. The rain falls hard and constantly, a blatant reminder of the world outside; waiting, waiting, waiting for me to run into its open arms, away from my cage of a half-desk/half-chair, a hideous piece of manmade architecture that has no place in this world.) Silence. (Have I been found out?) "A cafe." People groan their agreement. Approval. Pause. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah (Try not to listen, or at least give it no second thought.) drone on and on blah blah (I cannot decide if I have an overwhelming urge to run out into the elements and proclaim myself as free, primal, fulfilled at last! Or whether I am lucky to be confined here, protected, with a front row seat to a spectacular show of nature itself, a melodramatic film from the perspective of a lonely student not knowing what to wish for. It will be some time before I am allowed to make the choice.) blah blah blah blah blah (and finally) "Right that's all, see you next week."

Amsterdam: Chapter 1, Part 2

“It’s vanilla,” said Eddie triumphantly, and instead of saying “I know” and killing his spirits, I nodded slightly, probably too subtly for him to notice, and took another sip. I would probably be annoyed with me were I Eddie, I had time to hear myself think before Eddie finally got too annoyed by my prolonged silence and forced himself to speak again. “How was outside?” ended up being his choice of sounds to start me tuning in with him again.

            “I don’t think there’s anything going on tonight,” I said, and then took a long drag from the milkshake as if to enhance the moment of my self-inflicted dramatic pause. I smacked my lips together and cold vanilla liquid slid through my throat. “The street was totally dead.” As well it should have been, since we were situated so far away from the center of town, in more of a quiet rural neighborhood than a city side-street. The only reason we were here really, was because inexplicably it was Eddie’s favorite spot. I’ve no clue how he found it in the first place, but once he did he kept coming back. The first time we went in there he had muttered something about knowing the owner, but that hardly seemed a reason to burden ourselves with going so far out of our way to have a quiet place to chat, smoke, drink, talk, think. It was weird, his obsession for it. Sure, it was quiet and comfortable, but I didn’t get the massive appeal. Apparently neither did anyone besides Eddie, either, because the entirety of the upstairs area in which we now sat was void of all other human life.

Blanket Philosophy

"No one likes who they are if they really sit down and think about it and are completely honest with themselves."

-a friend of mine

Amsterdam: Chapter 1, Part 1

The street was empty, save a slender man several yards up the cobblestone path who wore a tattered fisherman’s hat and a brown corduroy jacket, meandering contentedly past a small café that had long since closed but which had presumably forgotten to take in their patio chairs because two of them sat outside, rusty and dejected, on the side of the lonely road. A moment later a bicycle clinked by, and then the alley was quiet again. The sun had set and no one was afoot.

            I popped my head back in from its previous position outside the second story window and slinked back to our table. Eddie must have ordered us another round of drinks because a tall milkshake frothed in front of my vacant seat. We’ve been here all day, I thought about mumbling, and afternoon has turned into sunset and hours have passed before allowing us to grasp one and wrangle an adventure out of it as a means of finding a purpose in this hopeless utopia we’ve surrounded ourselves in. Don’t you see our precious time has been wasted?

            I didn’t say anything though. Instead I slumped into my rickety wooden chair, the same one I had been in for who knows how long, and took a sip of my milkshake. Vanilla.

Turtle Fog (what?)

It is November 9th, and those sausages I bought from Sainsbury's last week are due to expire today. I wonder when my expiration date is? "Best if used by..."


While the sun turns quickly to winter malaise, feelings, like molasses, dribble down a wind-battered cheek.

Remembering spring doesn't make the weather warmer, in fact it's due to snow sometime next week.

Mixed Feelings

Warning: This is a long post and not really very entertaining...don't feel like you have to read it.

Maybe it sounds silly, but after reading of only a sliver of what must be mountains upon mountains of adventures my distant friend is currently living in China and Tibet, my heart sinks, and I wonder what I’m doing here, in a foreign-but-not-too-foreign country, surrounded by people just like me, doing things I’ve been doing my whole life, at a time when it’s supposed to be okay to topple out of your comfort zone at any available moment.

 

At first I am jealous that he is doing what I am supposed to be doing, that I have come up short in my Great European Adventure as I let endless possibilities end with what is familiar to me. But my feelings of discontent grumble deeper in my stomach than just that so I am forced to pry deeper into my mind and soul, something I am sadly uncomfortable with doing regularly.

“I wish I had gone to China” I think, or Russia, the home of my distant ancestors and an opportunity that was actually conceivable within the confines of my college program—four months in Russia studying at the legendary Moscow Art Theatre, the origins of many of the most famous and ingenious actors and playwrights of the last two centuries. I told myself I could take Russian courses the year before, figure out the specifics, and forever be that guy who did something unique, had a life-changing experience, and came back as a newer, better version of himself.

 

Since I’m not especially keen on being an actor (because presumably I lack the dedication, ambition, self-confidence, and talent for it—an all-too familiar trend in my life, comparable to quitting…let’s see…drawing, piano, baseball, jazz trumpet, and singing, among other less important self-defeats) I convinced myself it didn’t make sense because I’d be studying almost exclusively Russian acting techniques, and would not gain as many credits necessary to graduate on time. Fair points, to be sure, but ultimately if it’s a life-changing experience you’re after, some things are more important than not having to take summer classes in order to graduate.

 

But it’s not quite regret I’m feeling, because that’s a different type of pang one feels below the stomach, and, being familiar with that, I recognize it when I feel it. I think more carefully about my friend’s experience, and I realize that if put in a similar situation, I would have more trouble surviving. He has many advantages on his side that cater to his journeys—an outgoing nature but comfortable enough with himself to survive alone (a fatal flaw in myself—though I enjoy having personal time I feel anxious being by myself for any extended amount of time), and the gift of communicating through music. In his stories this seems to play an important role, which makes sense since it is something that is truly universal, and many countries inherit American music into their culture—that’s just the way it is. Equipped with a harmonica, guitar, vast knowledge of funny or obscure or classic songs, and an amiable, affable and unflappable personality (I realize I boast about your qualities too much, friend, but these are things I respect you for), not to mention a keen sense of poetry and turn of phrase with which he reports these stories, making me feel all the more awe-inspired and envious, he has the tools necessary for connecting with nearly everyone. Though I have many qualities that I am grateful for, the ones I’ve listed are not prominent among them (my clunky phrasing and run-on sentences in this passage serve as only one example among many) and I fear had I subjected myself to less familiar areas of the world I would have found it more daunting, painful, and isolating.

 

I do not mean to say that I wish I were he, or possessed his qualities, though I am sad to think that perhaps I am not cut out for such epic adventures, and would do better in a cozy home surrounded by loved ones, never leaving my library save for the occasional excursion to a quiet restaurant or an evening of theatre. I’m afraid to put myself out into the world, meaning literally the world that I am so greatly unfamiliar with, the distant regions of our planet, the inexplicable situations most of the population finds themselves in that I will most likely never experience.

 

I only use the comparison of my friend’s travels to emphasize what I wish I were capable of doing. I didn’t mean to linger on him so long because he’s not what I’m really trying to talk about, but isn’t it easier to talk about others than yourself, at least on sensitive matters of personality, fears, ambitions, shortcomings, and the like? Still, the fact that someone I know well is living something I thought I was trying to live makes my failure all the more real.

 

Even now as I sit at my computer in my flat I am glad I am not out with my friends here, because this is what I prefer. I should be willing to open myself to many other things yet when I start to I always find myself wishing I were back here. It might be an unchangeable part of my nature, that I am a home-dweller, that I am more interested in philosophy than actual experience and therefore am doomed to speak of everything in hypothetical terms for the rest of my life. But I think that people are meant to change, and I have witnessed this myself, and always been jealous that it was not me who came out the other side as someone new, though I hope I am different than I was three, four, five, ten years ago. I can remember myself back then and judge, knowing full well that in ten or twenty years I can look back on myself now and do just that. But how much have I really changed, and what was it that brought about those changes?

 

All that being said, I enjoy it here very much. I think of it more as a place to live than a place to travel to, but I could only learn that the hard way, and in some respects a stay of four months constitutes living. It is easy. I am learning how to act like a grown-up (though I’m 100% positive I will never actually feel like a grown-up, I can only put on my best performance as one as I get further and further away from childhood), how to take care of myself (sometimes poorly), how to cook (always poorly), and various other little life-lessons I pick up on the way but could just as easily have figured out in America. This has proven to be more of a jump-start into adulthood rather than an independent experience of a foreign land, one of those stories you tell from “when I was in college”, looking back on fondly and thinking how silly you were then. Maybe that’s good, and maybe it’s what I need, but sometimes (namely now) it doesn’t feel like enough, so I’m left with a twinge behind my heart, thinking of what I could have been, where I could be, who I could become when I inevitably return to the places I already know.

Nothing To Do With Election Day

Breathing heavily, her dragon heart could hardly remain within the confines of her chest cavity. Swallows in tree-trunks glanced back and forth, examining a tennis match between heart and ribs as they battled into the dusk. All the while the dragon roared with unexplainable rage and whipped her spiked tail about furiously, toppling over snowcapped mountains in its wake, as the heart tried to liquify itself to escape through the mouth, perhaps, or the veins, but this only made the blood pump faster, harder, more fiercely, which angered her more and more as the pain became unbearable and the skull pulsated rapidly, infecting the brain and turning the eyes lavender with death, as the dragon scratched her thought-beard and came up empty, like grains of rice passing through grubby fingers.

Soon, the shouting of all the world, for the dragon was indeed approximately the same size as a world, echoed up into her cavernous ears and uncomprehending blood-injected brain, as scaly and grotesque shimmery skin began ripping apart at belly-seams, the swollen heart protruding into atmosphere, gulping down breaths of toxic particles as it enlarged itself further, tearing the dragon in half as it flopped out onto heavenly concrete, beating all the while, dripping and covered with the dragon's familiar silver-splotched purple blood, which flowed out of her in a mighty waterfall of guts and soul, until after several hours she remained nothing more than a vacant, heartless shell, doomed to sprawl out amongst the universe eternally; only her dragon heart remained, dejectedly beating for six thousand eons until one day, during a cold December chill, it vanished into oblivion.

Mortality Approaching

I thought about jumping onto the tracks again tonight. Only for a second. I pictured the impact of the train on my unprotected body, the sparks flying up from the wheels, the screams of the shocked onlookers in between whispers of "he just leapt...I can't believe it. He just ended it." My heart raced with excitement, sort of, and only a little fear, as the implications of this one momentous decision flickered in front of my pensive eyes.

When the train approached and I didn't jump, just like all the other times I hadn't jumped, and the wind rushed past me in a hurricane of things I'd never do, I was relieved, sort of, and only a little disappointed.

Whilst Walking

Why do I so often find myself alone, left to the mercy of my gruesome thoughts, apparently boundless in the amount of absurd and grotesque machinations they allow to flow through my uncensored head? How much do I crave, in these moments, any superficial conversation?

Best Month-long Holiday Ever

Sure, it's Halloween, but what I'm really excited about is that it's the eve of a little thing called No-Shave November. It's pretty self-explanatory, and the reason I like it is that it gives me a great excuse to grow a sweet beard without getting yelled at (too much) by those who have to look at me every day (you know who you are).

Beautiful, right? So that's me, taken just seconds ago after my last shave until December 1st--for anyone who didn't know what I looked like, I'm sorry to ruin the mystery, but I'm glad you find me sexually attractive. I'll take a picture every day for my own records, but I won't post all of them because seriously I'm already self-absorbed enough as it is; but I will show you how I'm lookin' halfway through and at the end, before I get an expensive haircut/hot shave (I'll see if I can find a barbershop on Fleet Street 'cause I'm a dork) and look more like a normal person.

I encourage all of my male companions (wait, that came out wrong (wait, I'm not coming out)) to join me in the best month-long holiday this side of Ramadan.

Peace,

Adam

Empty Sky

Trudging alone on a cobblestone path, looking ahead, I noticed the sky loom from up above, vacant of presence, utterly empty. Only a light blue nothingness stretched out forever, and under its enormous weight I crumpled to the ground like a lost child whimpering for impossible salvation. A cold wind blew past from nowhere and everywhere, and all sense of bearing and comfort and familiarity, any last feeling of significance, evaporated from my body, spilling all around and drifting off in the ubiquitous gusts.

Fuck you guys

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Stuck

Feeling stuck, gotta push through. There's too much I want to do to not do anything, which is why right after I write this blog I'm gonna start doing things, like I keep saying I'm going to and which I keep not doing. I don't like being a flake because I dislike people who are flakes and I'd have a hard time putting up with myself if I disliked me.

Anyway, it's not so hard to become unstuck, usually it just takes a little motivation and a lot of watching youtube videos, and I've already accomplished one of the two, if you can guess which, so I'm nearly ready for action.

In case anyone was wondering, London continues to provide me with plenty of inspiration that I continue to do very little with. Hopefully I can swing it around this week. That's the goal. Goals are good. They keep you moving which prevents you from keeping stuck.

Good Mood

I love TV. And all-you-can-eat pizza, and living on my own, and drinking tea, and feeling optimistic, and twirling my long hair, thinking about how long it is going to be until I next get a haircut.

Wrong Dreams, Questions

He watched the self-destruction of everyone he knew crumble and smoke and erupt around him, and he tried his hardest not to question his dreams, too. Don't ask questions, he told himself, and upon thinking this mantra over in his head and realizing that questions are of ultimate importance in the world, he decided that it was still better not to ask them, because you probably don't want to know the answer anyway. Besides, everything's a bit easier with a goal in sight, and if you start asking all these questions about the meaning of the goal, or its worth, or your worth, what good does that do you? You'd have to start all over with finding a path, discovering what you like and who you are, and what you want to become and why, and all those bothersome tasks that he had already accomplished en route to his dreams. To uproot these ideals at this stage in the game would be preposterous, especially with all his friends collapsing on top of themselves at the alarming rate at which they were doing so. He decided to remain steadfast, even if he was maybe dreaming the wrong thing, because succeeding in the wrong thing, he rationalized, is better than never achieving what you think the right thing is.

Leaving

Not the Havel play...but dear lord, if you ever have the chance to see it...make sure you smoke a lot of weed first because then you might get it. If not, just don't bother.

On that note, I am leaving Amsterdam. I had a great, relaxed trip and saw a lot of the city and chilled out with one of my best friends and a bunch of my other friends, and just generally enjoyed myself. More than I could've asked from a vacation, and it's not even over yet.

Next stop is Barcelona, and I'm hoping to take the laid back mentality of Amsterdam with me, just enjoy seeing the sights and sippin' the beers. Oh, also apparently we have free tickets to see a Hornets game, of all things. So I'm anticipating an excellent trip.

Wish me luck that I don't get stuck anywhere in any foreign country/airport security/any number of things that usually go wrong when you travel, and I'll hope for the best too. If all goes well I'll be back in London on Sunday, just in time to meet up with two of my OTHER very good friends from Seattle the following week. So basically, in case you were wondering...Europe is tiiiiiiiight. My life isn't so bad either. Yeah, you wish you were me. Yeah, I'm a douche. Don't care, because of the first thing. About you wishing you were me. Seriously though everyone who is reading this is my best friend.

Peace and Love,
Adam

More Lessons

He learned to take immense pleasure from every thought.

Wherever You Go

I am pleased to discover that Sunday brunch is universally enjoyed throughout the world.

Farewell, Blog Society

Off to foreign(er) countries for 10 days, so don't expect any blog posts, you avid blog readers. Because I'm sure so many of you hang on to every succulent slice of  knowledge and prose I post here. See if you can manage without me, which you probably can't. And I probably will post something occasionally because there's Internet everywhere these days (puh, can you believe the state of the world today?) but just don't count on it. Don't make your life revolve around my blog posts anymore, alright viewers? Because honestly I'm sick of it. And I can't stand the pressure. It gets tiresome. Seriously.

Peace out. And fuck off. Just kidding I love you. Don't stop reading my blog. Okay, bye.

Adam

Late Night Thinking

Two ideas that are exciting to think about are the future and prophets of God. Though unrelated in most other aspects, they both succeed in holding my interest exceedingly well.

Monologue That Most Likely Does Not Reflect The Views Of The Author-An Exploration In Character Development

There are two things that everybody in the fucking world is concerned with: money and love. That's what I want too because I'm just like everybody else in the fucking world. My ideal life involves me sitting around in a pile of money buying fucking eight-trillion dollar llama-skin assless chaps online while getting sucked off by my super hot model girlfriend who I'm deeply in love with. I think that's the picture that just about everyone has in their mind whenever you ask them "what do you want?"

The only problem is that's a steaming load of fucking idealistic bullshit, and if a guy like me ever had eight trillion dollars to spend on assless chaps then the world would be in a hell of a lot of trouble. So maybe it's good that most people never get what they want.

Problem of the Day

So many things to write down. Sadly most of them are critical analysis papers.

Clothes

All of her clothes fit today for no reason. She put them on and they slid effortlessly over her body, snugly but comfortably, like a minor miracle. She hadn't gained any weight to be held  tightly by her jeans nor lost any weight to hide nicely underneath her blouse. She weighed herself just in case, something she never did based on principle but she was curious so she allowed it this once.

No different. She shrugged to herself in the mirror. Stepping off the scale, she thought about all the little cliche things that people did that they figured other people didn't really do because they were cliche. Like weighing yourself on your scale and then shrugging. Or like rubbing your belly after a satisfying meal to indicate you are full. She often did that. But only when she was really satisfied.

Words

Sinister whisperings whistling listlessly,
As I listen wishfully from slithering dreams.

First Night

I've been eagerly awaiting your arrival for the last 26 years Raymond.

26 years is quite a long time to be eager, I replied, determined to match the wise man's languid disposition.

It had been a long day to say the least and my calves felt a little like ripping out of themselves and swallowing a bottle of illegal Mexican pain-killers with the intention of overdosing just to put themselves out of their misery.

This feeling was the aftermath of a strenuous three week hike, slightly impressive when observed objectively, though not as impressive as a grueling month-long hike would have been, which is easier to brag about to your drinking pals when you finally return home, if that happens at all.

At this point it made no difference that my name wasn't Raymond. It was better than my own name anyway. I didn't even think twice about who Raymond might actually be, which must have been a mistake on my part but at the time how was I to know better. That was the whole point of my visit in the first place--to know better. So I wasn't going to until I did. Looking back on it everything makes perfect sense. Mission accomplished.

He--the wise man that is--asked me what I expected now and I responded rather hastily that I half-expected him to stroke his long greying beard and serve me a tiny cup of steaming exotic tea and discuss philosophy long into the night until the stars twinkled brightly on the bare mountainside, and that he would laugh with me and trade stories, and I would soak up every ounce of information poured into my empty ear.

Upon hearing this the wise man scratched his chin thoughtfully, lulling me into a vacant gaze as I watched his hand cover each crag of his withered face.

I wonder where the tea is brewing? I thought, and just then

the wise man removed his hand from his face and abruptly smacked me across my own.

I have no beard, he said in his calm voice, and trudged off to bed. And that was my lesson the first night.

Fleeting Haiku

Tricky reasoning
Leaves me cold and often wet.
Who's wiser than whom?

Useless Advice

Whilst frolicking through the wayward path towards enlightenment I tripped and fell, rolling down a steep hillside and ending up stuck in a particularly unpleasant pricker bush. I lay there for several hours, wondering how I could have ended up in this horrible predicament, and why I had foolishly thought I could travel unfettered in my quest towards ultimate knowledge. Greater men than I had become stuck in the rather elegantly symbolic pricker bush, as was evidenced by the fact that they lay even now beside me, flailing their helpless legs like frightened piglets, their overcoats flipped upside down to reveal their heart-patterned knickers.

"How did you come to be here?" I asked one of the great men, a philosopher of the highest degree whose studious desk I had passed on several occasions in the city library before I embarked on my fruitless journey.

"I came to be here..." he paused thoughtfully before giving me an eggshell full of useless advice that I would have spit back in his face were I not so starved for knowledge and uncomfortably squashed between a fat soothe-sayer and a restless young prodigy, who just so happened not to be wearing any knickers at all. "I came to be here...by going."

TV

I'm glad I know what I want to do.

We toured the BBC today with our British Comedy class, saw the news room, saw the studios, and I even won a free mug and a pen by winning a bullshit "weakest link" game at the end of the tour. And even though we didn't really get to see anything terribly exciting, and I didn't learn very much about the BBC or television in the least, I knew that I wanted to work there. I mean, not literally at the BBC, but in TV. It just feels like I fit there and I want to stay there. So it's good that that's what I'm going to be doing.

That combined with the fact that the best part of my day yesterday was watching two of my favorite TV shows leads me to believe that I really like it. So I'm gonna try to do it. Like, for a job. Because how sweet would it be to get paid for doing that? It'd be really sweet.

So that's what I've been thinking about today.

Reasoning

I'd rather say nothing than say something for no reason.

Vision

God came to me in a vision and he told me to meet him in Hyde Park at around 11:15 next Wednesday. I asked Him where and He said I wouldn't be able to miss Him because He looks exactly like how I would think God looked like, whatever that is. I asked Him how He knew what I thought He looked like and he said, "well, I'm God aren't I? I know everything."

Society

There is a great art to stifling yawns. One must purse their lips discreetly, force the eyes to remain open and focused, and concentrate hard on keeping the body tense yet lucid. It is a necessary skill to master should you ever find yourself in the company of boring or otherwise damnable sophisticates and still hope to be well regarded by them, as one must in order to accomplish anything in today's society.

Soup of the Day

The Soup of the Day today is roasted red pepper lobster bisque with a hint of lime, served chilled with a side vegetarian sandwich. We're sorry about the sandwich, we didn't have any roast beef left.

Reading Suggestions

My mission for this semester is to read approximately a book every two weeks. I'm just about on pace now but I've gone through most of interesting books that any of us actually own, so I'm taking suggestions for books I should read, and I'll probably be able to pick them up at some library or other. The floor is open...recommend me some good stuff, eh?

Other than that I've decided to avoid posting actual slice-of-life blogs as much as possible because they bore me (and Steve apparently) and they're probably lame for you to read and I don't really have that much interesting stuff to say anyway. So I'm going to try to stick to artistic renderings I've created, i.e. the last several posts, which I think are more fun for everyone, and (at least I hope) less self-obsessed.

I've also decided that since I'm writing a bunch of scripts that I actually want to hear them out loud, something I've never gotten a chance to hear (aside from inside my head) and that's how scripts are supposed to be interpreted so that's a new goal. Meaning if you are an actor friend of mine in London (you know who you are) I want to get some readings together and hear you guys say my words. It'll be fun for everyone, and if it ends up really sucking for everyone we'll go out for drinks afterwards. Win-win. Or lose-win, but either way eventually somebody's winning. So tell your friends, let's get some cool play-readings together, once I have enough plays for everyone to read.

Without further adieu, please enjoy more poetry, essays, dialogues, and philosophies in the days to come. This message has been made possible by McDonald's Free Wireless Internet, Google Blogs, my brain for coming up with what to say, and my fingers, for skillfully deciphering it.

Peace,

Adam

From The Archives

"Whistle," she said, and he didn't know what she meant. When asked to explain herself her lips disappeared and soon she was a featureless face floating in his memory, lacking individuality and, indeed, life.

Analogy

Writing is like taking a tremendous shit. It feels terrible while you're doing it but afterwards you feel so much fuckin better.

Lost in Wonder

I am endlessly fascinated by your nose.

I'm not sure what that means

but I think it's a good thing

that it occupies many hours of my day.

Aaah

Drinking tea is like drunkenness in reverse.

My mind is as clear as my belly is full.

Speedy Haiku

Damn you library,

Closing at 5 on Friday.

No time for poems.

Release

It took me three days to realize I was still waiting for you to come back. I mean I ate breakfast and while I was eating I would just picture you coming in and I’d hope that I looked alright and I’d be ready to open the door and let you in. It was three breakfasts until I realized that nothing else was on my mind except you. And you never came back. So after the last breakfast I just stopped hoping, and that was probably the saddest I’ve ever been in my life. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I stood up and looked at the empty dishes and I just—I was alone, you understand. It hit me that you weren’t coming back and I was alone and—three days! That’s what had kept me going, somehow I thought that any second you’d be marching in with a suitcase and a new haircut and…and then after the third breakfast I lost the image and I knew you were far away and probably dead for all I could tell and my phone hadn’t rung once and I didn’t know what to do. I hope you’re okay, wherever you are. You probably are. You’re probably very happy. This is the last I’m going to think about you because the second I get you out of my head you’ll be back. As soon as it leaves my mind and I’m not expecting it there you’ll be. So until then, I’m afraid I can’t think about you anymore. By the way I do love you. I’m sorry I didn't—forget it. I’ll tell you when I see you.

Revolution

Two guards stand attentive outside Lady Coverly's bedchamber as the church bell tolls twelve times. Is't midnight already? Asks one in a biting tone. I'd've thought our duty had just begun, so fascinating has this night been thus far. Bored are you? Asks the other. Then I have some news to tell you, in hopes it may entertain your underused brain. Not two nights from now shall there be a revolt upon the king, a usurpation of the highest degree, a part in which eight of our fellow sentrymen shall play. Usurpation? Asks the other stupidly, and the second guard nods gravely. Tis true, he replies. Will you not take part in our scheme to rid our kingdom of its most unjust ruler in nearly a century? Ay no, says the other hastily. If this be a test I stand firm in my loyalty to the king our majesty, and thus have passed. Tis not a test, spits the second guard. And if you be not with us you be against us. We will not see the uprising fail. What mean you to do? Cries the first, a worried tremble running through his coarse voice. Are we not friends? Shall we fight each other when the fateful day arrives? Not then says the second. There shall be no fight, comrade, as I have just now decided to end your life this moment, lest news of the revolution spill from between your cowardly lips. And with that the second guard spears the first through the heart, just as Lady Coverly screams from the depths of her bedchamber, that instant waking from a horrible nightmare.

Oh, Tuesday

Everything bad happens on Tuesday. If you've heard otherwise they are lying to you. I maintain we establish a revolution. Yes, friend, against Tuesday. Not that this Tuesday has been particularly disappointing--in fact I've quite enjoyed this one. But think of the terrors that next Tuesday could bring if it isn't stopped. Oh yes, my soul quakes at the mere mention of the horrible atrocities that this day is capable of. So remember, though every Tuesday may not hold bad happenings, everything bad happens on Tuesday.*



*The views of this blogpost do not necessarily reflect the feelings of the author. He might actually quite enjoy Tuesday for all you know.

As Promised

It was a good weekend--hung out around Shakespeare's hometown, saw a ridiculous production of Midsummer Night's Dream, spent a night in a Bed & Breakfast, hit up Oxford for a couple hours, and then went to the Thames Festival last night, which was crazy even though we got there fairly late.

But who the fuck cares about what I did? Anyway, as promised, this is something I wrote with a pen I bought in the church where Shakespeare is buried, in the pub where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien used to have philosophical conversations and get drunk all the time when they were at Oxford. If only I had written it on paper manufactured in the place where J.D. Salinger shed his first tear I'd be set. Next time, I guess.

Chapter 1

It wasn’t like him to sit alone in a pub. He typically enjoyed quietly eavesdropping on his friends as they chatted exuberantly amongst each other, occasionally tossing in a lackluster joke or adding a few words of encouragement to a particularly impressive story. But he was sick of it. So, cooped up in a darkly lit quiet corner he sat alone, notebook open, pint a quarter gone, dreaming as he liked about the most notable difference between English and Scottish dragons, or how quickly one would have to travel through space to be able to move the earth backwards through time. He deduced it would have to happen quite quickly indeed, the traveler would have to enjoy the most immaculate weather conditions, and would probably employ the use of a pair of magic shoes to be able to pull off the stunt successfully. All of this has little bearing on the story, other than that the reader may have been curious to know the types of ideas flowing through our hero’s brain, or at least might enjoy reading an excerpt of the curious paragraphs he was leisurely jotting down in his notebook in between sips of bitter ale.

New, Amazing Things

The idea of London was to open myself up to a new world of endless possibilities (I made that up just now, but it seems like it would be a good idea for what London should be). Well, I have just experienced something I never could have dreamed up (I probably could have but I don't have dreams like that)...you've probably already guessed it but: I ate a strawberry vanilla chewy granola bar! WHAT? I KNOW! I had never even HEARD of those before. They're very good, I recommend it.

Other than that, I'm having a difficult time laying down the foundations of some new work and I feel like I've lost sight of the core of why I want to write anything in the first place. It's a phase I (and writers everywhere) go through every other week, but it's still a disgruntling feeling when it happens. So I'm going back to the basics: telling a story and entertaining. I hope to post a couple dumb short stories here soon and see how they go. My goal is for them to be about very little, and to leave an impression on you the reader for the  rest of your life.

We're taking a weekend trip to Stratford early tomorrow morning, so no blogs until probably Sunday--plenty of time to write something worth reading. In the meantime I'll be kickin' it with Shakespeare and a few of my bros (and broettes) gettin' crunk and reciting beautiful sonnets. If anyone going on the trip is reading this...bring along a sonnet you've memorized so that we can recite them when we get crunk there. That's what I'll be doing.

Enthusiastically,

Adam

What's The Point?

The title is not meant to be depressing...just posing a question. I don't really have anything to say, but since this is the only time I get on the Internet today I decided I might as well say something, because the dullest thing that I say is likely equivalent to the most fascinating thing that most people ever come up with in their entire lives.

How interesting was that? Pretty interesting I bet. For you, not for me. I live with my thoughts all the time, so I'm pretty used to them by now.

That's all I got for you today, peeps. Having just woken up I'm finding it difficult to shake the cobwebs off of my brain and hit you with some philosophical shit. Soon though, I promise. And if not, don't worry because there are plenty of better, more trained philosophers whose published shit you can read for free at the library. So...no harm done. What's the point of writing again? Let me think about that today.

Ponderingly,

Adam

Impromptu Haiku During TK's Class

Jo's writing haikus

So I thought I'd write one too.

This is my haiku.

...And A Tidbit Of Wisdom From London

Anything will taste good if you put enough butter and olive oil on it. Trust me.

Tidbits Of Wisdom From This Summer #2

"I have the voice of an angel and the heart of a lion. Literally."

-Devin

Reality

Even when you're in the middle of trying to figure yourself out, you still have to do stuff.

I'm Playing My Cool Card

Well, I've betrayed myself already by titling my post what I've titled it.

A few things...first of all, I had a wonderful video chat with Steve (hey Steve) in the library yesterday, which I decided not to mention until now because first of all I was pissed because he got me in trouble with the scary British librarian for laughing too loud in public (can't do that in London...er, I mean libraries) and second of all I was pissed because he hadn't read the screenplay I sent him.

But then he did today so we'll call it even.

Now to the real point of today: I've gotta maintain my cool. What else do I have going for me? I mean besides my looks but those will fade with time (although several sages have told me that I am ageless). All I know is I'm definitely not going to whip out my neurotic, unsure, frightened, desperate, lame side that has been so prevalent in all the terrible shit I've been writing lately. I'm too old for that anyway. Besides, this year is about being an adult (among many other things) so that's the direction I'm gonna take me. And in my opinion being an adult means being cool. Well, being me as an adult means being cool. So that's that.

Am I talking about something specifically? Yes. But I've decided I'm going to be cool for the rest of my life so I suppose it's applicable to everything else too. Just to be clear, I don't mean "cool" as in wearing leather jackets and making the juke box play by jabbing it with my elbow (The Fonz is still considered cool right?), I don't mean I want to be the popular kid and know all the little hole-in-the-wall places and always say the perfect thing all the time. I just mean I'm gonna skim under the surface and not let shitty stuff get to me and take things as they come and roll with it.

And that, kids, is how to play your cool card. That's what all the cool kids are calling it these days.

Cooly, maybe too cooly,

Adam

Oh, hey

Clearly, living without Internet has been a hindrance to updating the blog. But seriously, fuck blogs*. That is most definitely a good thing though because I'm reading more (increasing my already enormous amount of wisdom) and writing more. I've already finished two screenplays since I've been here so I'm feeling good about it. If you are interested in reading them and have some amount of power in the industry please let me know. Otherwise please don't bother me.

On Thursday I went to an American sports bar to watch the first football game of the season. I ate chicken wings and drank beer and yelled with other Americans. It was a great feeling, even if it made me a little homesick. Then I walked outside and remembered I was still in London and that London is way cooler than America and felt much better about myself.

I wish I could write more but the library is closing (damn you, restricting hours) so I am off. I wish I could think of something else of wit and humour (that's right, with a U...get used to it) but it's 5 pm and I'm already dead drunk so I'll have to let it slide for now. Ah, to be young and in love. With England.

Until I remember to bring my computer to the London Center, adieu.

Cordially,

Adam

*See first blog post

After Midnight Haiku

Three AM night bus
obediently travels
where I need to go

Since when do blogs need titles?

It's just another clever thing I'd have to think up, and as long as I'm not writing a literary essay, short story, movie, or poem I say they are unnecessary.

I've always said that blogs are like assholes, they all suck. Wait, everybody is one. Yeah. And I'm not one to shamelessly plug anyone's work besides my own (PS read my other blog posts!) but there is a particularly entertaining blog I've had the pleasure of reading the last couple of days. It probably won't be entertaining to you (since you don't know them, unless you know them, then it'll be entertaining! Confused?) but I think it's hilarious, and if you are reading my blog in hopes of understanding what life is like for me in London this will give you a better idea. Because God knows I'd rather write about anything other than what's really happening to me.

Anyway, check out Jo Ro's blog at http://joroinlondon.blogspot.com/ for an idea of what livin' the life is really like. If nothing else other than for the fact that I am actually hanging out with this person, and that I am mentioned several times throughout the first two posts (the main reason I read it). Don't worry, it's Adam approved.

Approvingly,

Adam

The Harder They Come, The Harder They Fall

Can you really complain if God has been miraculously, inexplicably feeding you manna in the desert for 40 years and then decides to stop one day out of the blue and leave you to fend for yourself in the cruel, bitter world? Can you get mad at him and complain that you are entitled to it, and get angry when he tells you to fuck off and deal with it because he's been helping you out this long and he thought by now you'd figure out how to find food for your fucking self?

No.

Sadly this is what I believe to be a perfect metaphor for our Internet connection at the flat, which we have been stealing from "the bloke upstairs who would never know what was going on", according to the landlord. Well, I don't know what happened but it didn't work all day yesterday and I'm starting to think we may have to accept our sad, sad fate. I am to be regulated by London Center and library and Internet cafe hours until December. Is there anything worse in the world? Yes. But this still sucks. So now we're wandering lost in the desert and have nothing to eat and have to wait until the local desert gas station opens at specific hours during the day so that we can buy candy bars and frozen pizzas. This metaphor has gotten worse as it continues, but what can I say, I'm hungry. I mean, I have no Internet at my home. Yeah, that's what I mean.

But also the title of my post is really clever because The Harder They Come is the name of a musical we saw last night. So basically this has been a wonderfully crafted if horrifically tragic and strangely religious blog post.

Somberly,

Adam

Sunday

It is a much welcome Sunday after the first of many long weekends. Sundays are why they invented tea and newspapers and slippers and robes and lazy mornings.

Fuck yeah, Sunday, rock on.

Philosophy From A Pimp

We went to a club tonight, like a dance club. There was a legit prostitute there. She went off with some sleazy British guy but her pimp gave us some advice. He said that life's too short to go home early. Then he yelled at some passersby, exclaiming that they were too posh to go and dance at his club. Then he tried to sell my friend weed. Needless to say it was a good night.

Remember How Awesome I Am? I do.

Earlier today I was thinking, "huh, maybe I'm not as awesome as I thought I was," and then I was taught the game of cricket and then I scored like, 25 runs and won the game and now I realize that I am in fact just as super awesome as I had always assumed. Just to give everyone a rundown of my afternoon.

In other news I'm still in London, so I guess that's good. I'll try to keep the fans updated on other outbursts of sheer awesomeness likely to head my way in the near future. Keep up if you dare.

Morning Haiku

There's no joy more prev-

alent than waking up with-

out an alarm clock. 

Realization

Little by little it dawned on her that she wasn't going to have a good life when everything was said and done. The fact that she could reflect upon the paths she had chosen and not come up with a single happy memory was reason for panic in her eyes, and she decided that something ought to be done about it, lest she become so miserable that she drop off the face of the planet without a sound or a trace. That was truly the worst thing in the world, she figured, to disappear as soon as you die.

Writer's Block

For me it involves sitting upside down on a couch while my friend runs around lip-syncing to Michael Buble as she tapes posters to the wall.

I can think of nothing else to say. I guess that's what writer's block is.

Happy Birthday Amy!

Limerick #8

My mother once told me, "my boy,

although you're my pride and my joy,

you're upsetting the balance

with you're huge lack of talents,

so your spirits I have to destroy."

A prize for whomsoever catches the reference in the title.

Tidbits Of Wisdom From This Summer #1

"Everybody's pretty gay for Jack in the Box curly fries."

-Andrew Levy

The Artist's Brain

A dimly lit study, grey night, cluttered desk. A crazed artist sits still, pondering. He ponders life, art, relationships, contentment, religion, rhetoric, society, perception, and the impossible. His papyrus remains undirtied by his graphite, empty and bored. The young artist stares angrily at it and it winks at him, teasing. He scowls, barks at it, falls back into thought. His brain itches. Metaphors topple out and evaporate into space before they can be collected. The artist snatches at them but they are gone, snickering at him until they disappear to leave him again to his bitter silence. Thoughts rattle in his brain louder and louder, shaking it about in his skull like a jumping bean, irritating his existence to the point of absurdity. Orange striped doves weightlessly float past his imagination, countless toenail clippings fade into cream-soaked racing scooters before melding together to create an enormous black statue of a treble clef, suspended midair by eight dozen cherry-filled hot air balloons.

Nonsense. He returns. Gains his bearings. Blinks. The page remains blank and the frustrated artist bangs his clenched fist against his desk. The desk winces slightly, recoiling from the blow. The irritated artist’s hand throbs too but he only bares his teeth quickly and exhales slowly to recapture his previous composure. Bored of the stagnant room, the conscientious artist opens his ears. He pretends he can hear a grandfather clock methodically clicking, its delicate sound waves slicing through the air and tickling his eardrums, giving him comfort in his solitude. There is no clock. He is alone. He and thoughts.

The brain jitters again. This time with a tickling sensation brinking on epiphany. “At last” thinks the relieved artist, but hastily quells this thought to allow the epiphany room to germinate. He doesn’t stop to think “this is important”. He doesn’t pick up his graphite. No. He opens his eyes wide, concentrating on not concentrating. The left thigh begins to twitch uncontrollably and he lets it. The thigh thanks him and continues for a spell and then the artist can’t feel the body he assumes he owns. The brain twirls and flops and squeezes, it dances an elaborate neo-modern piece inside the artist, it is the artist himself and yet its own commodity, confined to his body, a trapped fugitive trying to escape. The terrified artist dares not move and so remains motionless inside his study, but the brain is elsewhere. Soon it can constrain itself no longer and plans its exit stratagem. Through the pores, it calculates. Through the pores.

The sly artist eavesdrops on the thoughts but does nothing to prevent them flowing. The imaginary clock stops ticking as time itself freezes, icy cold, and the brain forces the willing artist to shiver, stimulating the skin. Opening the pores. The restless brain catapults itself towards the skull and crashes, slumps, groans. The dazed artist’s left eye is forced shut. The determined brain decides on osmosis, and funnels its thoughts through the synapses until they reach the pores. Soon the internal pathways are clogged and thoughts leak out. The statuesque artist allows it to happen. The brewing epiphany seeps out his pores. It is slimy, gelatinous, midnight blue, like the blood of a dragon. The curious artist is tempted to lick it, but the cautious brain restrains him. The epiphany pours out systematically, forming a substantial pool of thought on the cluttered desk. It trickles over the empty papyrus, which immediately takes notice and sputters for help as it begins to drown. The paralyzed artist quakes gently, silently, as thoughts emanate from his brain, slithering out uncontrollably until the entirety of the epiphany has been released and the desk overflows with genius. The study falls back into its sedulous tranquility, the atmosphere reeks of anticipation, the artist’s eyes pop shut. Blinks. “Has anything happened?” he wonders, and he anxiously peers down at his desk. It doesn’t wave to him and he becomes skeptical. He peers around the room from his seat. It is still. He doesn’t imagine the grandfather clock in the corner. He remembers how he is alone. The depressed artist glances down at his page. Curious. It is filled with graphite, patterned lines and swoops, sketches, drawings, characters, letters, words, sentences, ideas. He looks it over. It is perfect.

Was this his? It was not the artist who was able to transfer it to the page. It is not a translation from thought to substance that he is looking at, it is pure thought direct from the brain, now lounging, collapsed and exhausted in his skull, perusing its handiwork. The selfish artist decides it is his. His brain, his words, his art, his brilliance. Guilt overtakes him, no doubt a message sent from the brain, informing him of the truth. The artist decides to ignore it. He smiles at the page, laughs. The first sound to be emitted from the dimly lit study for some time. The greedy artist picks up the page, stands. Pushes in the seat. Organizes the desk. Puts away his graphite. He leaves the study spread the word, expose the epiphany. He closes the door, does not notice his heavy shoe splash in an infinitesimal puddle of midnight blue.

James Pearce, Lettings Negociator

In England they spell "negotiate" differently.

If I told you to picture a stereotypical British Real Estate Agent, you would come up with the exact image of James Pearce, Lettings Negociator (that's what it says on his business card). First time we met him he was sporting a dark blue, perfectly fitted checkered suit with a pink and blue striped wide tie, tied perfectly. The pomade in his hair kept it firmly gelled in place, and you could tell that even the few hairs that were slightly unkempt had been placed there on purpose. Upon meeting him on subsequent days this was proven to be true. He talked fast, repeated his main points several times a minute, and on the first day mentioned he has been so busy he didn't "even have time for a cup of tea and a fag," and then gave us a toothy grin and chuckled to himself. He's one of those people who's so charming and so sleazy that you can never tell if he's the good guy or the bad guy. That's who we were dealing with.

Sparing all the horrific details, he's our realtor and we now have the best flat ever, in the nicest part of London, ten minute walk away from school, with a garden and free wireless. I'm skipping over the week of hell we endured in looking at flats all over the various ghettos of London and almost falling short of paying for the place we have now. Well, as James said to us (numerous times) we deserve several pints for our efforts.

That's it. Don't worry, future blog posts will be funnier and less informative, because I know that's what the people want.

Cheers,

Adam

Subway Conversations

BUM: Yo, you a writer?
WRITER: Yeah.
B: What you write about?
W: Oh...you know.
B: No I don't know. What you write about?
W: Prostitutes. Whores who murder the rich businessmen who try to hire them.
B: Damn. That's fucked up.
W: Not really, I'm simply reversing the status quo that we as a society have become accustomed to. It's more of a metaphor for the unjust way the world has been established.
B: Alright. You ain't gonna kill me or nothin?
W: No. You're not a whore, are you?
B: Man, you fucked.
W: I guess I am.

Edinburgh

I guess I believe that where you write could potentially be nearly as integral to a piece as what you write. Thus I have brought my notebook and decided to jot this note down in it while atop the Scott Monument in Edinburgh, Scotland. Here I have a full view of the entire city--the shoreline, Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh Castle, the buildings, the people. Right now I don't feel full; in fact very much is missing for me (as it begins to rain--am I inside a cloud?), but I do feel inspired and close to happy, though most of all I stand here and look out at Edinburgh thoroughly amazed.

Hello London

Fresh off the boat...already I have ravished a beautiful European girl into submission and drunk eighteen pints of Guiness. London is everything you'd think that it would be only better because I'm me.

On a side note, D and I also made sweet passionate love on the plane ride over, just to warm up. It was a great way to calm my nerves down for the flight, because nothing lulls me to sleep more than some great sex.

Leaving for Edinburgh in a few hours to claim my next victim(s). If anyone wants a snow globe or something like that just let me know so that I can tell you to go to hell.

Kittens and Candycanes,
Adam

Goodbye America

I'm closing in on my last few hours in the United States of America and thought that this epic moment in my life deserved its own blog entry.

I just spent an awesome day and a half in New York City with my grandpa before departing for London/Edinburgh. Saw a couple Broadway shows (In The Heights and Boeing Boeing) which were great (except for Boeing Boeing which was terrible), and even met up with Casey at 1 in the morning last night when we discovered we were both in Manhattan. By the way, don't take the subway at like, 3 in the morning...not fun.

Well, I've written a goodbye note to all the people I just had to leave. I was planning on writing like, individual little notes to some people to tell them how great they are but then I decided that'd be way too sad, and too much like I was dying. So in lieu of that I wrote everyone this:

I didn’t have it in me to say any real goodbyes this time, or to let those I needed to let know know how I much I care about them. I’m not good at that. But it's not the end of the world, because the people I need to see again I will make sure I see.

Okay I'm off...wave goodbye to America for me.

Sensitively,

Adam

Open Form Letter to the Masses

Dear Masses:

First of all, fuck you. Second, fuck blogs.

I don't hate blogs, but I do like making fun of them. They suck. Somehow people always delude themselves into thinking they can start a blog that isn't completely self-absorbed and masturbatory. Of course it never works. But it might work for me.* You see, this blog isn't for me, it's for you. It's way less work for me to keep everyone updated on the awesome shit I'll soon be doing by writing one blog than to talk to each of you individually. Besides, having the same conversation more than once bores me. That being said, I will only continue to update this shitty thing if at least a few people are actually glancing at it, because otherwise I'd just feel like too much of a douchebag.

I love each and every one of you who has read this (including myself). You are the best.

Fondly,

Adam

*Generously paraphrased from Arrested Development